Sadness
by YellowFluffiesForever22
Summary: Because being "sad" makes us humans. Oneshots in the Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort/Angst genre. Ratings vary from K-M. [6. The Disappearing Sun: "We are the refuge to each other's broken lives.""]
1. Far Away

_"You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness."_

_― Jonathan Safran Foer_

* * *

**Title: **Far Away

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** T

**Genre:** Angst / Romance

**Warnings: **Mentions of attempts of suicide and alcohol. Also, this story has not been beta-ed. ALSO ALSO, this has homosexuality in it. *sarcastic gasp* It's 2015, stop being ignorant.

**Plot:** "If my heart remained in your possession, wouldn't our ending be even more tragic?"

**Notes:** Written upon impulse, so excuse the rather vague plot. About this new project, a collection of oneshots, is an entirely new thing to me so please excuse the lack of skill at writing short stories. *bows apologetically*

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters. They belong to their respective owners. This goes for all the chapters.

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**Far Away**

* * *

To You, who shall never read this...

Consistently, I remember the way my life was when we were still together. The way everything seemed blissful yet, completely hellish. The way we purposefully ignored reality and continued living like we were in a fairytale. The way we thought nothing could ever harm us. The way we loved each other like our love was accepted.

It makes me feel nostalgic, writing this down...

You know, Rin constantly pesters me about you. That our ending was nothing less of a Korean drama. That all these loose ties we left hanging in the wind is so ridiculously childish. That I should've told you to stay...despite the fact that Luka was pregnant.

...excuse Rin, please. She never really did understand our situation, with her mental disorder and what not. Excuse her for last time, too, when she threw you against a wall and demanded you put a ring on my finger. She's only twelve, she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand that her simplistic way of thinking was nowhere near society's twisted way of thinking. This world's standards and morals—all of them would be too harsh for her. My sweet sister who is s confined by the hospital's tubes, excuse her.

You adored her, remember? I remember. Especially that day you accidentally admitted how lovely and easy it would have been if you fell in love with her instead of me, right? Remember? I remember.

Well, I'm sorry I wasn't born with a female's body. Sincerely, I apologise. It would've made life easier, right? It would have made our lives easier, right?

I try to, you know, move on...but the fact that you're still out there, alive and smiling, makes my heart ache. Shouldn't you be dead? Shouldn't we both be dead? Shouldn't you have jumped off that bridge, your hand wrapped around mine, exclaiming that if you couldn't love me freely, there would be no reason to live at all? Shouldn't we both be in heaven, or hell, overlooking Earth? Shouldn't our fates be entwined as we died together in that suicide stunt?

Then, why am I still breathing? And why are you celebrating your first child's third birthday?

Actually, I'm a lot less lonely now that I have Kou, Miku's brother. Remember him? That one guy you hated so much that you smashed your wife's parents' TV over his head? Ah, that was in college, four years ago.

We were reunited in that uni party you didn't attend. Weren't you at some marriage office, arranging the wedding with Luka? You missed some incredible rap battles, man, you seriously missed out. Anyway, our meeting was like a surprise, a pleasant one. He gave me this killer smile, then suddenly we were waking up in bed together, wrecked with alcohol and cold from lack of clothing. It was a nice start to our relationship, to be honest.

I like Kou. He's brave, unlike you.

I'm not writing this to make you jealous, or anything petty like that. Honestly, it's to let you know that, even though the memories remain, I have moved on. I swear, I have matching t-shirts with Kou to prove it!

But I can't say that I'm happy. However, I can say that I'm somewhat halfway there. (Wishful thinking!)

I mean, come on, if my heart remained in your possession, wouldn't our ending be even more tragic? Did you think we had a future together? Did you think, You, the son of the CEO of the multinational company, _Oasis_, would be allowed to love me, the most average-looking guy who works in a stinky convenience store and has a mentally-impaired sister? Did you think that your demonic mother would have stopped pressuring you to marry the vice-president's daughter, Luka, for me? Did you think our future would've been any brighter if we remained together?

Whatever. That was the past.

So, it's okay if I throw away all your forgotten stuff, right? It's okay if I burned all your pictures? It's okay if I dump your ice-cream stash in a lake, right? It's okay if I shred our matching clothes, right? It's okay if I delete your contact info, right? It's okay if I erase you from my heart, right?

Hah. It's funny. It's like you're going to read this letter.

Before I move on, though, let me say write it down one last time... I love you.

Okay, okay, okay, okay, _okay_. I'm good.

Anyway, originally, I had written to You...well, to congratulate you. I heard that Luka is expecting a third child, yes? Jeez, that woman never gets tired of being pregnant, huh...

I hope you take care of your family. Heaven knows they don't deserve what I went through.

I will miss you. But you won't ever know that, because this letter will never reach your eyes, and old time's scars will never be reopened.

To You, who broke my heart for the sake of your dying father... To You, who chose mind over heart... To You, who disregarded my tears... To You, who treated me like a stranger...To You, who promised wedding vows with a woman you hated upon sight... To You, who had two children with her... To You, who looked me straight in the eye and whispered "goodbye"... To You, who pretended like we never considered taking our own lives for the sake of being together forever... To You, the first and last man I will ever love...

Farewell, Kaito.

— Len


	2. Familiarity

_"I don't need anyone to hold me, I can hold my own."_

_― Ani DiFranco_

* * *

**Title:** Familiarity

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Mentions of domestic abuse and self-harm. Story has not been beta-ed.

**Genre:** Family / Hurt/Comfort

**Plot:** "Like the father I never had."

**Notes:** This one is just bleh.

* * *

**Familiarity**

* * *

Mother never loved me.

Some say—and by "some", I mean my inner conscience trying to be unreasonably logical despite the fact that I refuse to listen to what it's trying to tell me—that, at one point or another, Mother did love me. Past tense. Not present tense, conscience.

Would a mother who loved her daughter break everything ever sentimental to said daughter? Would a loving mother yell profanity at her daughter? Would a sensible mother try to slit her throat in an attempt to commit suicide? Would a caring mother purposefully poison her daughter's lunch? Would an understanding mother kick her daughter out at midnight? Would a protective mother not give any damns about whether or not her daughter was missing? Would a reliable mother forget to lock the doors at night? Would a kind mother not care if her violent husband visited and turned our house upside down?

Would a loving mother tell her daughter straight to her face that she never loved her?

That the daughter was just a sick mistake?

I don't think so, and I didn't know why she hated me, like my life was a burden on her shoulders.

So, that's why I, this day, approximately a year ago, ran away from home.

As in ran away from home.

Not some wimpy trail a couple of blocks from her house.

No.

I ran all the way to a different area all together.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and my kangaroo teddy, I met him on the bridge entering the town. Just leaning against the railings, tipping over and testing gravity, was him. I later learned his name was Po, after he was convinced I wasn't a fourteen year old mugger. (It took a lot of quizzes to persuade him.)

Po is just about thirty, like Mother. Comes from Hokkaido, transferred south for better education, works in a noodle bar—but that's all I found out about him. Strangely, my conscience obnoxiously wanted to know more. However, Po's a secretive guy, that's why his hair is so big and long; because that's where he keeps his secrets.

After the first night of running away, and inevitably failing after realising I forgot to bring money, I had no choice but to return home. As expected, Mother didn't care. She probably didn't even notice I was missing as she was sprawled on our couch, drowning her sorrows of her miserable life away in a hurricane of sake and tears.

I continued visiting Po on that bridge.

One night, he had asked, "Why did you run away from home?" And I said, "Because mother hates me." He seemed surprised. "Did you do something wrong?" I admitted, "I think it was because I was born." After that our conversation ended, and we simultaneously and silently slipped back into the night.

Constantly, almost every night, I visited Po. Night after night, always, on the bridge. We'd chat, talk, not including personal information, of course, but close enough to admit things we'd probably never tell other people.

The jokes he'd say, the endless stories of his rather bland life but were told as if they were exciting adventures, his broad and bright smile. The little presents he'd give to me—sweets, treats, magazines, teddies, glitter, shiny rocks, fake pearls, half-empty perfumes, withering flowers, and everything in-between. The hours of talking and experiencing. The nights of familiarity and closeness. It was love, absolutely, but not romantically. Romance was way over my head, anyway. Besides, I have never experienced family love, never mind romance.

It felt like I experienced a decade's worth of memories in a span of three months.

It was nice, being with Po. Like the father I never had.

One night, Po asked for my full name. I only ever said my name was "Luka", nothing more, nothing less. I told him, finding myself trusting him, "Sakine Luka."

He was shocked, almost flabbergasted. When a minute or five of silence passed, Po mumbled under his breath, "Now the reason why you ran away makes sense."

Three weeks after that rather weird incident, I was digging around in our house's attic in an attempt to salvage any sentimental belongings of mine after Mother had gone on a crazy rampage trying to destroy them all. In the end, I only managed to find Mother's old yearbook from highschool.

As I flipped through the pages of the dusty yearbook, I realised Mother was not active in anything. It wasn't until I saw the students photos did I see her face.

Mother was a lot youthful-looking, obviously, but still had the same choppy bob-cut back then. Aside from her hair, Mother had changed drastically. Her once bright eyes are now empty, her once full cheeks are now sullen, her once glowing skin is now ghastly, her once curvaceous form is now worryingly thin, her once cheerful smile is now a scornful grimace.

I found Father's face, too.

Just like Mother, Father was younger and youthful. His pink hair remained the same until now, but his smile and features turned terribly angry. Maybe, when he was that age, Father had other emotions aside from fury and madness. But now, that's all he ever feels. That's what he's made of; rage, with a side serving of insanity.

When my heart started acting weirdly, pounding loudly in my chest, and I decided to close the yearbook, another face caught my eye. A familiar face, one that belonged to a peculiar man that loitered on the rails of a bridge entering another province.

Po.

Subconsciously, I slid my finger across of the surface of his picture, thinking. Like my parents, he was a lot younger. Although his smile never lost its brightness, it did have the habit of becoming bitter and almost regretful whenever I met him on that bridge. His hair was shorter too, choppy, like Mother's. Coincidentally, he was in Mother's class all throughout highschool. Weird.

Underneath the picture of Po, read, "Kamui Gakupo. Class 2-C."

Stupidly, I realised Po wasn't his real name. Oh well. Po suited him better, in my opinion.

Anyway, asking Mother about Po was the next significant thing that happened after the yearbook discovery. It wasn't exactly logical or well-thought out, but the curiosity was killing me. I simply approached her on the rare occasion she was sober, when she was a heap of hangover headaches and sore throat syndrome on our couch watching TV, and casually asked, "Who's Kamui Gakupo?"

Mother raised a balding eyebrow and lazily changed channels, not making eye contact. "The number one wuss of all time, that's who."

I was unconvinced. "Mother, who is he?"

This time, Mother sent me an irritated glance, then focused back on her listless channel surfing adventure. "He was a guy in my class in highschool. Just another blurry face in a sea of blurry faces." She paused, to think, or to hesitate, I didn't know, "Great. Another sudden memory to drink out of my system."

Mother's vagueness gave me my suspicions. The way she acted was weird. Usually, even if Mother was terribly sober, she would not have given me more than one sentence of an answer. Normally, it was a glare, or an incoming vase, but not a vague explanation.

That night, I planned on confronting Po about his relations with Mother, but, unexpectedly, his state was rather odd.

Po was drunk.

That night, his body was hanging over the railing a little too far, his body a little too unbalanced. That night, his usually bright smile with its hidden secrets was darkened to form a lazy smirk. That night, his scent wasn't floral, but reeked of booze and cigarettes. That night, Po wasn't Po.

"Don't lean too far," was what I greeted him with, tracing my hand on the curve of his back, to balance him, or so I wanted to believe. "You're too young to die."

"Luka!" He grinned broadly, revealing food-stained teeth and releasing booze breath. "You're here again!"

My heart hurt, seeing him messed up beyond logic. Like Mother when Father first started his furious outbursts. "I have no choice, do I? I'm the reason you don't fall to your death into the river."

Po chuckled, deep and throaty. "You're the reason I've ever wanted to jump anyway."

His sudden confession caught my breath, and my lungs ached. "What do you mean?"

"Meiko...just had to get knocked up, huh, with Yuuma's child... You," Po grumbled under his breath, irritated, "She could've had my child, but nooooooo. Yuuma loves her more, Yuuma's hair is prettier, Yuuma's going to a good college. Absolute BS."

About a thousand emotions were pulsing in my veins, yet I still managed to ask, "What were you to Mother?"

Po looked me straight in the eye for the first time that night, and solemnly said, "Meiko's backup plan, her booty call or whatever... Not husband-material, obviously..."

"You were Mother's..." I forced myself to not hesitate— "...lover?"

He sighed. "It's not that simple."

"So," I stepped backwards, retreating, "Mother hates me because she regrets choosing Father over you, and you hate me because Mother had me with Father?"

After a thoughtful silence, Po answered with another sigh, "I don't..._hate_ you, Luka." He leaned forward, testing his chances with death, and said, "You make me sad, with you being a reminder of what I screwed up a long time ago."

"Then I should go," I said, hurriedly fixing my attire, readying myself to leave, "We should have never met."

Before I could swivel around and allow the night's shadows to engulf me whole, Po suddenly yelled, hanging more than half of his body over the railings, looking determined yet desperate, "If you go, I'll jump for real!"

It was tempting to run back to him, the seriousness in his eyes was nothing to joke about, but Po was drunk. Po was not Po. Po would not jump. I frowned coldly. "Then, jump. What's the point in staying if you hate life? It's better drowning in water then sadness."

"Are you really going to go, after all we've been through?" Po asked, helplessly desperate. "All the nights of chatting? The nights of happiness?"

I swallowed back excuses. "True, the reason I'm happy is because of you, but the reason you're sad is because of me."

"But my sadness isn't your fault, Luka!" Po pleaded, begging, "You're the only person that's ever cared, the only one who showed concern when I hung around the bridge!"

It might have been true, what Po was saying. Maybe I was the only person decent enough to be concerned about his well-being and odd habit of hanging over railings—but the thought of me, being the person who drove him to this state, made my heart clench with guilt.

I was the product of an unwanted marriage, a hurried and hasty marriage. A marriage made not out of love, but from pressure. I was the daily reminder of everything Mother screwed up, being the mirror image of Father, except for my structure and rather plump lips. I was the reason Father couldn't live his ever-so bright future. I was the reason Mother hated life. I was the reason Po wanted to jump.

My existence was a complete mistake, a nuisance.

If Po wanted to jump, fine. It wasn't like we could go back in time and stop Mother from falling for Father anyway. With this mindset, I turned away from the purple-haired man on the railings, threatening, testing gravity. However, I wasn't heartless enough to leave without some final words. "Goodbye," I whisper, but loud enough to be heard, "Gakupo."

And I disappeared into the night, allowing the shadows to engulf me.

* * *

If a happy ending was what you are looking for, it's not here. Nothing is blatantly happy nor has anything ended.

My life continues, and even if I didn't, others would continue. The "end" you're searching for hasn't arrived, yet, never mind it being happy.

Things have definitely changed, though.

Father is officially starting college again, after abandoning the idea of it after impregnating Mother near the end of highschool, and rarely rages anymore. Mother has finally come to her senses, upon seeing Father alight with happiness, for the first time in about six years, and is starting to attend support groups for her drinking problems and has gotten a job as a cashier. It's not much, but it's definitely something.

This all happened because I confronted them, cried, yelled, screamed. _If I was the reason why your lives are so pathetically miserable, then why aren't you trying to fix it? Why are you shouldering me as if I were a burden? This is my life! You have no right to act as if it's a nuisance, just because you two were reckless! It's not my fault, but it's not yours either! Now get up and stop living in the past!_

This made them wake up. Made them snap and realise. Realise that our lives were a mess, and they weren't trying to fix it at all. Realise booze and anger won't solve anything. Realise hating and neglecting their daughter, each other, was not the way to fix it.

Me? I am finally facing reality.

This day, approximately a year ago, I ran away from home.

As in ran away from home.

Not some wimpy trail a couple of blocks from my house.

No.

I ran all the way to a different area all together.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and my kangaroo teddy, I met him on the bridge entering the town. Just leaning against the railings, tipping over and testing gravity, was him. I later learned his name was Po—and, in the spur of a drunken haze, he told me the reason why Mother hated me.

He is the father I never had.

Who listened, who talked, who revealed secrets. Made me laugh, brought me presents, and opened my eyes to the truth.

I never got the chance to thank him, for everything. For making me realise, for helping me make my parents realise.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be fifteen. Nothing exciting, really, but it's some sort of milestone.

I am at the bridge. The only difference is it is daytime, and I am no longer fourteen, with a determined mindset and an ambition of running away from my broken home. Some things have remained the same, though.

I am still Sakine Luka, a child from a healing marriage.

And Kamui Gakupo, the man who never chased after his one and only love out of cowardice, being the infamous "number one wuss of all time", as Mother said, is still draped over the railings, testing gravity, testing death. Wanting to fall, but too scared to do it.

His did not jump. He did not die.

Maybe, _maybe_, he will forgive me for walking away that night, a year ago. Maybe, _maybe_, he would want to start over with me, as a fatherly acquaintance. A father who is not my Father.

I step forward, and breathe in. I place a small smile on my face as I reach out and trace the curve of his back, to balance him, or so I believe. I don't want him to fall, and my intentions are still unclear, but I definitely don't want him to jump. Especially since I've realised wounds can heal, people can make mistakes but try again.

In a form of a greeting, I whisper, "Don't lean too far. You're too young to die."

He turns around, surprised, but then smiles. "You're here."

I smile back. "I'm the reason you don't fall to your death into the river."

Unlike last time, he nods and smiles. No secretive chuckle and drunken confession. "You're the reason I don't want to jump."

My smile lengthens. "I know."

* * *

The "end" you're searching for isn't here, _yet_, but right now, I am definitely happy.


	3. Entwined Fates

_"A bond between souls is ancient - older than the planet."_

_― Dianna Hardy, The Witching Pen_

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**Title:** Entwined Fates

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Heavily fantasy-themed and is quite fluffy compared to the first two oneshots. Story is horribly un-beta-ed.

**Genre:** Fantasy / Romance / Hurt/Comfort

**Plot:** "Everyday, the princess would peer out her window, hoping and waiting. Where is her beloved prince?"

**Note:** This was inspired by the word "corkscrew".

* * *

**Entwined Fates**

* * *

Everyday, the princess would peer out her window, hoping and waiting.

_Where is her beloved prince?_

Everyday, the sweet princess sits by her open window, gazing longingly at the vast world spread out in front of her, waiting to be explored—with her prince, of course. Her supposed "prince" is her only ticket to freedom, to sojourn the wide world outside of her dreary cobblestone tower that horrid witch locked her in when she was five.

_Surely_, the princess thinks, _there is more to her lovely existence than this dull life in the tower!_ Surely, there is more for her to do then just sit and wait. More than curling her voluminous magenta locks into twin tendrils, more than applying faerie magical "makeup" onto her face, more than stuffing herself into a new gown for a prince that will never rescue her.

Surely, she will speak to more people, unique and fascinatingly exotic people, rather than her only companion, the rather mischievous and obnoxious faerie dragon-human, Oliver.

Their meeting was on a day like any other—a turquoise sky, a pink sun, a gentle breeze, a new gown—when, suddenly, a projectile egg crash-landed into her bedroom, inevitably giving birth to a tiny boy with butterfly wings the shade of honey and red velvet.

The princess simply stared as the winged boy wobbled to his feet. It was when they made eye contact, light magenta against azure blue, when the boy spoke, his voice a breathy tremble, "I'm Oliver. I am here to rescue you."

Of course, the princess was just disappointed. A very troublesome pest had entered her life to make it even worse...but she couldn't just let him go. He was young, in dragon age, and would die without his mother—the princess forcibly became his parental guardian—and besides, he refused to leave. His eyes were determined and alight with passion, "I was destined to be with you, princess, and I will never leave you."

That was five years ago.

Until this day, Oliver remained by her side, in the dreary cobblestone tower, occupying his corner, either practising his dragon magic or being completely animalistic, like shredding her gowns or sniffing her fairy powder or messing around with her fairy hair-curlers.

Like any other day, the princess sits by her window, gazing longingly at the wide, wide world, waiting and hoping for her prince to rescue her. Clad in a gown made entirely of silky cobwebs and glittery fake-eyelashes, the princess is hoping for the prince to come and see her in all her beautiful glory.

However, as she ponders about her prince, Oliver suddenly takes a seat next to her beside the window, peering outside and nibbling on his lower lip with his sharp teeth. Then, he glances at her, questioningly, a little impatiently, and asks, "My princess, when will you ever leave this dreary tower to go out and be free?"

"When my prince comes," the princess replies firmly, although she is starting to become impatient and doubtful.

"That is rather boring, waiting," Oliver remarks, frowning distastefully, "Why don't you just hop on my back and we'll fly out?"

"Indeed, you are truly annoying and stupid," the princess admits, sighing, "we cannot just simply "fly out", as you said. This tower can only be left behind if a prince rescues me."

"I am not a prince," Oliver states, standing up and grinning, "but, before I was even born, I was destined to rescue you."

The princess stares at him, wide-eyed. _Five years later, the faerie dragon-boy is still blabbering this nonsense..._ Well, whatever, what is the point of continuously turning him down when he is so persistent? With a sigh, the princess gives in and starts to stand up. "If you let me fall, you will be held responsible for the death of the fairest maiden of the land."

Oliver grins, and retorts, "Who is this "the fairest maiden of the land", you speak of? I would truly love to meet her."

Scoffing, the princess punches him playfully. "Quiet, you. Now, just transform and let's fly."

As the princess pulls on more comfier attire—leather boots, frilly shorts and a light blouse—Oliver concentrates and begins to turn. Over the years, Oliver had learned how to hide his wings, but now he releases them from their confines of his tailored dress-shirt. They spread and stretch, revealing golden and red velvet patterns of spirals and swirls on his wings. Being a faerie-dragon meant he has butterfly-like wings instead of ones similar to a bat's, and his scales are rather soft and feathery.

Once he has transformed, Oliver looks similar to a reptilian butterfly, not a dragon, but the princess doesn't mind.

Bigger dragons meant more hassle anyway.

She climbs onto his back, seating herself in front of the wings, and observes Oliver's growth. Dragons aged and grew tremendously, so it is no surprise that, even though she is few years older in human age, in a span of five years, Oliver is about six foot and has the same mentality and academic ability as her.

The princess also notices Oliver's rather attractive features.

She couldn't help but acknowledge that her friend is quite handsome.

All the years they've spent together, she has never truly noticed all his charms. His blonde curls; his wide, azure eyes; his mischievous grin; his nicely toned body; his height; his pearly, sharp teeth; his pale, pale skin; his constant excitement—his determination and stubbornness.

She finds all of them quite alluring.

Her train of thoughts are brought to a sudden halt when Oliver cranes his neck, grinning, "You ready?" The princess nods, and he tells her, "Hold onto the collar of my shirt and wrap your legs around my torso if you don't want to fall, my princess."

Quite flustered, the princess slowly curls her fingers around his neatly ironed dress shirt—_courtesy of yours truly_—and reluctantly crosses her ankles around his lean stomach. She gulps, then says, "I'm ready."

Although, at first the princess was absolutely sure they weren't capable of leaving the tower due to the magical barrier around it, but now that Oliver is backing up and readying himself for flight, the princess is having second thoughts. She holds in her breath, tightens her grip on his collar, and braces herself as Oliver starts running and running—out through the window.

Nothing prevents them from soaring through the sky. No magical barrier, no warty witch, no fear of falling; nothing. Nothing could stop a faerie-dragon's wings from breaking free and soaring. Nothing can stop _them_ from soaring.

When Oliver dives and loops, the princess can't help but let out excited squeals and thrilled screams. She reaches out and touches whatever her fingertips can reach; leaves, flowers, butterflies, grass, animals, clouds. She glances around, searching for more to touch, to feel, to be. Finally, the turquoise skies are reachable, the gentle breezes are grazing her skin, the pink sun reflecting on the silvers of Oliver's wings.

Finally, freedom.

But, alas, the thrilling ride eventually ends and Oliver lands delicately just below the tower, where grass is up to their waists and flowers are brushing against their sides. The princess carefully slides off the faerie-dragon's back and faces him with a gleaming smile. "That was magnificent." She broadens her smile, causing the corners of her lips crinkle cutely. "Thank you."

"No, thank you," Oliver replies humbly, albeit smirking triumphantly. "I was able to fly because of you, my princess."

The princess's smile is brighter than any sun, at that very second, but immediately darkens at the sight of Oliver gazing at the horizon, longingly, sadly. She places her hand on his forearm, concerned. "What's the matter, Ollie?" She only ever calls him "Ollie" when she is feeling extra considerate.

"Thank you, for staying by my side," Oliver suddenly confesses, smiling a bittersweet smile. "I will truly miss these times..."

The princess's heart starts to hammer in her chest as dread courses through her veins. "What are blabbering about...you whimsical fool. Don't speak as if you're dying..."

Oliver faces her, and for the first time in five years, she sees him cry. "What's about to happen is worse than death, your majesty."

He turns away and wipes his eyes quickly. He continues to face the setting sun, whose rays grazes their skin, whose light surrounds their entire frames. It looks like a picture from a fairytale...a tragic fairytale. The princess desperately holds onto his arm. "Do not speak nonsense! Let us return to the tower! I will make some fairy cakes and oolong tea and—"

Oliver's solemn tone interrupted her wreckage of a lecture. "What is this tower you speak of, milady?" When the princess turns towards where the tower originally stood, and finds it has mysteriously disappeared, she begins to panic. However, he remains unfazed, calm. "This is the beginning of a new era..."

"Freedom?" She whispers, anxious. "All these years..."

"You should return to your kingdom, milady. Set off with a stallion and ask the fairies for guidance. See your parents after all these years. Marry a prince, build your own kingdom, have your own family..." Oliver trails off, vaguely rigid.

"I will not return without you." The princess insists firmly. "My mother and father must meet you, who rescued me."

Oliver chuckles. It is a deep, melodic sound. "Have you not listened to me all these years, milady?" He faces her with a solemn expression, his eyes empty except for melancholy. "I came to rescue you—" a tear slips out of his right eye, "—but our futures are not meant to be together."

"What...?" She loosens her grip and allows her hand to fall to her side. "We were destined to be together...you said so yourself!"

"You were meant to be together with a prince, a man of royal blood coursing through his veins, born with a silver spoon in his mouth..." Oliver smiles bitterly. "Our fates are entwined...but, in this life, I am nothing but a dragon, a beast undeserving of the love of a pureblood."

The princess stands still, heart hammering, face reddening. "This is ridiculous. Why should I marry someone else when we're destined to be together?"

"That's how pureblooded creatures are, they are obsessed with keeping their blood line pure. It is how they remain as royalty," Oliver explains, voice hoarse.

"If that was what was to happen to us, then I would have preferred being in the confines of my cobblestone tower," the princess admits, biting her lips, guilt in her heart. Her obsession with escaping is now something she deeply regrets.

"No, milady, I was destined to rescue you," Oliver corrects, smiling a little, "I was destined to rescue you today."

The princess stares at the dragon-boy standing in front of her, cheeks stained with tears, smiling a sad smile. The pink sun she has always yearned to see is setting behind him, but all she can focus on is his trembling hands and the listless flutter of his wings. She says nothing. What is there to say?

"I have to go," Oliver suddenly says, bringing out his pocket watch and looking at it with dread, "I must return to my family's mountain."

"I shall go with you," the princess exclaims immediately and grabs hold of his slender hand. But upon making skin contact, Oliver flinches and jumps away, the hisses of fairies surrounding them.

Oliver is flustered, stuttering, "We—we cannot, princess... In this life—"

"Why must you continuously blabber about "this life", Ollie?!" She cries, furious, ears red, "Nobody has the right to separate me from you!"

He bites his lips, and forces himself to say, "Please understand, milady—"

"I am not "milady" or "your majesty"!" She roars, tears beginning to pool in her eyes, "My name is Teto... And I want neither prince nor king to marry me. I want you, Oliver."

Her confession makes the dragon-boy blush, from the tip of his fingernails to the top of his head. However, he manages to weakly say, "Please don't make this any harder..."

The princess ignores his pleadings and attempts to grasp his hand. Yet again, he flinches away, but this time, his left foot disappears. She screams from surprise while he wobbles back to balance, frowning. "Can you see, Teto...? In this life, we cannot be together, or we will both disappear."

She contemplates, and finally says, "I'd rather us disappear together than live on without each other."

Threatening hisses resound from the trees and flowers around them, making Oliver shudder. "The fairies are insisting I must go. They have prepared a stallion for you. You must travel North to reach your kingdom."

The princess tries to protest, but is interrupted when she feels a stinging burn snap at her ankle. She looks down to see a wild fire-snake circling around her, a purple fairy riding its back. Despite the incredible height difference, she could make out an impatient grimace on the fairy's face. She faces the boy again, and sighs in defeat, "...okay."

Oliver's face is illuminated by the stars that have come out along with the midnight sky, and she can see his wistful expression. He approaches her, stepping at a slow pace, ignoring the ascending hisses, and leans in to meet her eyes. Her magenta clashes with his azure. His breath trails on her cheeks as he whispers, "Thank you for everything," he _leans, leans, leans_, to gently place his lips against hers. It is quick and fleeting, but bittersweet and full of promises, "—my princess."

Then, with a last shiny smile, Oliver whips away from the grass and flutters into the night sky. She watches until she can no longer see his beautiful wings, no longer see the blond nest on his head, until she no longer feels his powerful presence.

With a final inhalation of breath, the princess turns away from the night sky, dries her eyes, and sets off on horseback to her kingdom with a heavy heart. However, she is full of hope for the fulfilment of the promises Oliver gave to her in their one, but not final, kiss.

* * *

**~ A Century Later ~**

Teto Shirahane stands on the doorstep of her new room, hesitating, dreading. After being conned by a greasy English man on the very first day of her college semester, Teto has been forced to share a room with a boy in the cobblestone/wooden dorms beside her college. So far, Manchester is living hell, but the education is so going be worth it. That is all that motivates her as she finally turns the door handle into her new dorm.

Upon entering the crumbly four-roomed apartment, she sees a British boy sprawled on the ripped couch, flicking through textbooks then recklessly shucking them to the side. He is clad in nothing but tights jeans and a white, albeit greying, tank top.

A variety of emotions burst in Teto.

One, amazement. Is it possible for a human being to be that attractive? Admittedly, Teto never found bad boys to be handsome nor good-looking, but the boy's blond nest of hair and azure eyes captivate her. His toned arms are inked with golden and red velvet spirals and swirls. His height is just right, just to her liking, six foot. His broadness, his smile, his laugh—wait. She has never heard his laugh nor has seen his smile. Is she hallucinating? It is probably the odd stench of the apartment, for sure.

He looks up from his textbook-shucking endeavour, and scans her from head to toe. The first thing he says is, "Went a little crazy with the hair dye, right, love?" in a perfectly sarcastic British accent.

Two, anger. Bad boys like this never fail to irritate Teto.

She scoffs and slams the door shut behind her. "It's natural, you whimsical fool." She pauses, then asks, "Aren't you going a little too crazy on those textbooks there, sweetheart?"

"Ha ha," he laughs sarcastically, unamused. "To be honest, I don't give any Fs. This year'll be worse than the last..." he scans her from head to toe, "Now I have some sort of princess rooming with me."

"I'm not a princess," she corrects, feeling déjà vu as she said it, "My name is Teto."

"Great, that's a totally normal name," he remarks, throwing aside another textbook. "I'm Oliver, y'know, normal British name."

"You lack subtlety," is all Teto can say in fear of getting out-insulted by this narcissistic beast, "Oliver", as he calls himself. Who knows if it's even his real name? "Anyway, where's my room?"

"Your room is that green door," he points to the said door to her left. "Aka, my room."

"We are not sharing rooms," Teto states immediately.

He raises an eyebrow. Another textbook is shucked. "Why not?"

"There are multiple reasons!" She exclaims, flailing her arms. "I'm a girl, you're a shady boy!"

"And you say I lack subtlety," he grumbles then stands up, padding over to her. He guides her to their supposedly "shared" room and shows her everything.

There is a neat and untouched bed on the right, and a bed to the left heaped with his crap. The space between the beds is around a metre and a few centimetres, but that's about it. A double-doored closet is tilted to the side in one corner, and rickety drawers beside both beds. The only good thing about the room is the rather fairytale-like balcony behind the beds, overlooking a park nearby and their college.

"That's your bed," Oliver beckons at the neat bed, pointing out the obvious, "And no, I will not jump you. I may have the strange tattoos, but I'm a decent and civilised human being."

"More like a beast," she mumbles under her breath, staring at the mountainous crap on his bed. There are magazines, textbooks, novels, clothes, underwear (used or clean, she couldn't tell), shoes, pillows, teddies, bottles of colourful liquid, rotten food, kitchen utensils, old pizza boxes, painting sets, calligraphy sets—you name it, it will definitely be in his pile.

Teto begins to unpack her stuff after opening up her rather tiny suitcase. Mostly school stuff and clothes, which she all stuffs into her drawer in fear of accidentally losing them in the haphazard closet of his. However, she has no choice upon finding out that the drawer could only hold about the height of a newborn infant. With a sigh, she dumps her stuff into her side of the closet, but becomes curious and sees two books neatly placed at the back. She picks them up, dusts them, and reads their covers.

One is a book about astrology, the other a fairytale book.

Teto is surprised to see that it is the fairytale of The Princess and The Dragon, which is her favourite fairytale. For reasons that are strange; she somehow connects to the princess, like an alternative self. Every time she read the fairytale, she would somehow vaguely reminisce her...writing the book. Which is ridiculous, obviously, but the words used and content in the book always had her heart aching and mourning. She slips the book into the inner pockets of her hoodie.

The astrology book, on the other hand, is new. It smells fresh off the shelves and has no signs of it broken being into. However, before Teto can delve deeper into the book, Oliver appears out of nowhere and immediately slides the book under his bed. He ignores Teto's shocked expression and sprawls himself in-between the beds, blocking her from exiting.

She notices, after not paying enough attention to her new roommate's legs, that Oliver is an amputee. Specifically, one that has lost his left foot. She instantly asks, "What happened to your—"

"My left foot?" He stretches out said foot and wiggles his bionic replacement. "I was born without one."

"Odd," is what Teto says and attempts to step over Oliver, but is stopped in the process when he grabs her wrists and holds her in place.

"You have something that belongs to me," he states, smirking knowingly. "Hand over the book, princess."

So, he saw... She thinks and sighs in defeat. "Only if you tell me what you like about the book."

"You're gonna be like that, huh," Oliver groans under his breath. "I like it because the boy can reach the stars, yet he wants to stay on ground with some generically whiny princess, for what? Love?" He scoffs. "He's terribly idiotic, but somehow, I can relate to him."

Teto's eyes widen at the boy's words. So, it is normal for people to relate to fictional characters? So, she isn't crazy? She sighs inwardly. The book falls out of hoodie's inside pocket and into Oliver's lap. After a while, she notices his hand still wrapped tightly around her wrist, and she drawls, "You ever going to let me go, dragon boy?"

Oliver looks flustered, for a millisecond, but then composes himself and lets go. "Move along, princess. I've got some textbooks to burn."

"Again, Teto, not "princess"," she corrects, grinding her teeth.

"Well, get used to it, 'cause it's sticking," he grins mischievously, "princess."

Teto rolls her eyes.

This year will be living hell.

* * *

Two months into rooming with Oliver and it's still hell.

Teto, despite her best efforts, tried to become accustomed to Oliver's unusual habit of playing with fire and mixing strange colourful concoctions—but it's hard to do that when he nearly burnt her whole library down and spilt weird orange substance on a draft of her essay for college.

He also had a habit of playing with her curlers. He would pick it up, swing it around, boast, "My curls are natural!" and would then proceed to recklessly swing the curler around by its cord.

Oliver is also very fond of the nickname he gave to her; princess. "Don't use the bath for too long, princess." "Love the new shampoo, princess. L'oreal or Pantene?" "Sharing is caring, princess. Not everyone is royalty like you." "Pass me that pillow, would ya, princess?" "Smells like the carcass of a whale. What kind of queen raised you, princess?" "You know, you're only good at making oolong tea and fairy cakes, princess." "The heck does this mean?! How am I supposed to know what 'y' is?! Yo, help me, princess."

_PrincessPrincessPrincessPrincessPrincessPrincessPrincess_.

Yes, Teto has countered every one of it with an insult or "dragon-boy", but he still manages to be the reigning champion of comebacks.

To make matters worse, Oliver is a hopeless drunk.

Not that he is an addict, or anything mildly concerning, it's just, when Oliver gets drunk, which is frequent due to all the invitations from his friends, he goes overboard despite being a lightweight drinker. So, this leads to Teto having to pick him up from wherever and take him home. She has forcibly taken up the role of his parental guardian—unfortunately.

Like any other night, Manchester has a dark sky with barely any stars due to the light pollution and city noises murmur quietly in the background. Currently, Teto is hauling Oliver back to their apartment, placing one hand on his hip and the other gripping his limp arm around her shoulders. As per usual, Oliver went overboard with alcohol and is a pile of drunk mess.

It takes fifteen minutes to get back to their apartment, which felt like an hour of hell for Teto, and the moment they arrived, she gently throws him on the couch. Then she pads over into the kitchen, makes oolong tea and takes out some fairy cakes, and force-fed Oliver to bring him to his senses.

Once he is somewhat conscious, Teto assumes that he will simply fall asleep and not cause any ruckus as she finished up her essay in their shared room. However, she thought wrong. So wrong.

After finishing the eighth page of her twelfth page essay assignment, Oliver wobbles in, gurgling, "Tetoooooo, I wan' more 'airy caaaakes!"

She facepalms mentally. "Ollie, I'm busy right now. I'll get you some later, okay?" She only calls him "Ollie" when she's feeling extra considerate.

"But Tetoooooo," he drags her name, and slumps over her shoulder to peak at her essay. His breath, albeit trailing a little too far down her neck, is humid with alcohol. "I don' wan' to waait."

She jabs his ribs with her elbow, ignores his hiss of pain, and continues typing. "Ollie, you know I absolutely love taking care of you when you're a drunk mess, but, sweetheart, I think my grades are far more important in this situation." Note the sarcasm.

However, when Oliver is a drunk airhead, he doesn't seem to understand sarcasm. "You love taking care of me?!" He squeals and hugs her from behind. "I love you too!"

Teto's breath hitches in her throat, but doesn't stop typing. "You incompetent fool, you have misheard me!"

"Nooooo, I heard you right," she can practically feel his smirk on her neck as he continues to hug her, "You loooooove me!"

"Will the tea and cakes make you shut up?" Teto snaps, feeling a vein pop on her forehead.

She stands up out of her seat on her bed to go to the kitchen, but is stopped by the clingy Oliver. He pulls both of them down onto his surprisingly uncluttered bed, Teto practically on his lap and him seated almost invitingly. He pouts childishly and answers, "If you kiss me, I'll stop bothering you!"

Teto frowns. Her last kiss was with her ex-boyfriend who was practically a kissing god. Apparently, it wasn't from natural talent, but from experience with several other girls. To sum it up: Teto hates kissing because her last boyfriend was a good kisser because he had been cheating on her. That's why she replies to Oliver, "How about I force-feed you broccoli?"

Oliver ignores the threat and pleads, "Just one, I sweaaar!"

She gives up. Why would she continue to argue when he is so persistent? So, she leans down to gently place her lips on his, just a small peck is what she had been aiming for.

However, Oliver had other ideas.

He deepens the kiss, worryingly skillful, and falls back onto the bed, his hands suddenly on her lower back, dangerously close to the hips. Soon, she finds herself cupping his face in her right hand, and combing through his hair with the other. Rather than a kiss, it is more like a tongue tango. Albeit the name being cringey, it was so true.

They part to catch their breath.

As soon as Teto's eyes focus and meet Oliver's, she notices something wrong. He isn't dead asleep or sleepy, but wide-eyed and dreamy. They stare at each other for a long time before Teto releases a scream that might as well have come from a horror film. She crawls off of him and waves a shaking finger in disbelief, "You aren't even drunk!"

"I've been found out..." He says breathlessly, then licks his lips, making Teto blush.

"Since when—?"

"C'mon, did you think I was really a lightweight drinker?" Oliver rolls his eyes. "I was pretending all this time."

Teto feels like screaming. Maybe smashing a window or two. "Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I like you," Oliver confesses slowly, blushing a little, but keeping himself composed. "Could you really not tell?"

Teto could say nothing. She just stares and reddens.

After a minute of silence, Oliver speaks up, "Can we kiss again?"

"What makes you thinks I'll let you do that?" Teto retorts, finding her voice again. "Lower the hormones, dragon-boy. This isn't a middle school kissing game."

Oliver sighs and scratches the back of his head, looking impatient. "True, my hormones have been raging recently... But I feel like it'a something more than that... Like I've been yearning for you for years."

She feels her entire body heat up like crazy. _What a cheesy twat!_ "Your sentences are so cringeworthy..."

But she doesn't deny it. Mostly because she feels like kissing him is fulfilling a promise that had been made a century prior to their life. Maybe she is just hallucinating? Anyway, the feeling is so, very, mutual.

"So, can we kiss again?" Oliver asks, eyes twinkling like the stars he wishes to reach. "Pretty please?"

Teto sighs, secretly happy—and kisses Oliver again. Before she leans in to kiss him, she whispers, "This will be our last one."

Little did Teto know that she was so, _so_ wrong.

* * *

**Note:** I was actually planning on ending it after Oliver flies off, but they were too cute, so I extended their story a little. (Honestly, I've grown very fond of this couple.) :3

(For those who are not satisfied with this fluffy oneshot, the next one is super dark, so flee for your lives. :3)

Review please? C:


	4. The Definition of Love

_"It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit."_

_― Noël Coward, Blithe Spirit_

* * *

**Title:** The Definition of Love

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Contains dark, adult themes. Is also un-beta-ed.

**Genre:** Angst / Romance(?)

**Plot:** "The definition of love is confusing."

**Note:** I cannot even apologise for this one.

* * *

**The Definition of Love**

* * *

My girlfriend is an angel.

She, with her strawberry locks and twinkling cat-like eyes, is beautiful. However, if you stare at her for too long, you will fall into a never-ending spiral of lies. She is sweet, her words all lathered in sugar and everything nice, her sweetness so sweet you might choke. She is selfless—cares for the homeless, gives to the poor, feeds the hungry, helps the elderly, understands the misunderstood—but when you take her selflessness personally, you will be deceived. She excels in school, is an A+ student, but once you delve deeper into her school records, you will find that she is anything but a prodigy.

She is an angel, but if you look past the sweetness, the selflessness and excellence, you will find a demon in angel's clothing.

And I am her prey.

* * *

The definition of love is confusing.

Is it sweet and fluffy? Is it saddening and depressing? Is it sadistic and malicious? Is it lustful and passionate? Is it dull and dreadful? Is it fun and lively? Is it bitter and tragic? Is it forbidden and secretive? Is it oppressed and shameful? Is it disgusting and ugly?

Because that is what Iroha's definition of love is; all of the above.

We want it all.

* * *

One day, she will say to me, "I love you, Ryuto!" And it is all sweet and fluffy—laughs, giggles, smiles. Dates, treats, hanging out, kissing, innocence. Happy, normal love.

The next, she will be asking me, "Please sit back...and watch," then she will proceed to harm herself. With a wide range of tools, she traces a blade on her silky skin, pierces a needle through the surface, jabs a sharp-ended stick into her side, pounds a hammer on her slender fingers, tears flesh into pieces; she makes herself bleed. She forces me to watch, to be sad, to be depressed. She feels the thrill, excites her nerves and increases her heartbeat. Another definition: saddening and depressing.

Another, Iroha will tie me up, "A little foreplay," she says to convince me. I am not convinced, but she still carries on. Whips, chains, leather, belts, toys, ropes, knots, metal, handcuffs, cages, blindfolds—the list will continue to go on. Sometimes, it's the other way around. I am still not convinced, but this is a definition amongst many of our love—sadistic and malicious.

When the sky darkens, maybe, she will jump me, or I will jump her, cooing, "I want you so much," and we're two bodies melting into one. Tongues fight like there is no tomorrow, bodies connect continuously, hands wandering hungrily, clothes shed impatiently, body fluids flowing, desires clashing, emotions spiralling—lust and passion.

Rainy days come, and she will grumble, "I'm bored of you," but we remain together anyway. She will push me away and I will ignore her. She will punch and kick and I will say hurtful things. She will scream and I will roar. She will cry and I will sob. We will hate being together, so dull and dreadful.

The sun will have risen, the atmosphere's undertones are bright colours, and she will be happy. She will squeal and laugh, "Let's go on an adventure, Ryuto!" and we will do exactly that. It is cheery and colourful, the world bright with joy. Nothing can break the smiles and grins and laugh that will fill the air. It is lively, it is fun.

"I can't be with you," she will whisper in-between tears, and our souls will be separated, temporarily. She will pretend as if this love is not allowed, and our ending is bitter. Iroha loves Romeo and Juliet, and it is her aspiration for us to end up like them. End with poison and mistakes. End with tragedy.

At school, or generally in public, she will pull me into the shadows, and giggle, "Wouldn't it be exciting to do something crazy?" and will proceed to undo the buttons of my shirt or remove her top. She coaxes me, with her wide eyes and licking of the lips, she persuades me to have intercourse where we can be caught. The danger and possibilities enthrals her, fuelling her desires and odd excitement. The things we do are forbidden, it will be done in the secrecy of the shadows.

Some that have found out our secret say, "That is immoral," and, "What you do is sinful," and they think we don't know. We do know. But can we escape? Can I escape? Can she escape? No—so we continue, obliviously and naively, in the love that is frowned upon and shameful.

Overall, to sum it up, our definition of love is disgusting. It is ugly.

What can we do? What can I do? What can she do?

I love her and she loves me.

She loves me and I love her.

Our definition of love is confusing, but we understand it.

* * *

I am an angel.

I, with my mossy green hair and excited eyes, am handsome. However, if you stare at me for too long, you will be deceived. I am smooth and playful, my words said suavely and charismatically, but my charm may lead you down the wrong path, and make you believe my lies. I am funny—can brighten a room with my smile, will bring a grin upon your face, has endless jokes up my sleeve, is the clown—but once you look past my laugh and grin, you will see an ugly grimace. I am capable—I get passing grades, have a decent future ahead of me, is fit and lean, is a people's person, has a pretty personality—but once the capability is gone, I am nothing but a monster.

I am an angel, but once you look past my charisma, my humour, and my capability, I am nothing but a cunning angel that has long fallen from heaven.

And my girlfriend is my prey.

* * *

**Note:** This maybe be my last update in a while—I know, I'm mean—because of exams and my three-week holiday to Canada. Afterwards, I hope to update a lot speedily due to the summer holidays. c:


	5. Breathe

**"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."**

**― Friedrich Nietzsche**

* * *

**Title:** Breathe

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Mentions of death and self-harm. Mixture of optimism and pessimism. Unbetaed.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort

**Plot:** "Hold my hand as I prepare myself for the chances of death."

**Note:** Quite connected to the first oneshot, Far Away. Set four years after.

* * *

**Breathe**

* * *

Things lighten up. There is hope.

For my brother, yes, but for me, no.

Ever since I could remember, I am chained to a hospital bed, unable to break free from my confines and live my life.

I am unstable. Emotionally and physically. Maybe even mentally, but my thoughts are pretty coherent. I usually get lost in them, but seldom in a chaotic and crazy way. I am ok, in my mind. Emotions and physique however—_eh_, not really.

That's what the doctors tell me anyway. "Rin, you need to stop watching soap operas in order for you to remain emotionally stable," or, "Never go anywhere without your crutches or a nurse, Rin." Yeah, I get it, Dr. Shion, who smells like stale bread and reeks of crushed dreams. He's always out to crush my dreams.

Ha ha, too bad. My dreams have been already crushed. Suck it, Shion.

Anyway, as always I just lay here, in this hard bed, breathing.

But I am not alive.

* * *

My brother visits me every two days.

Sometimes, his boyfriend tags along.

He's nice, unlike the other one who left him for a woman. (So rude. And a little unprofessional.)

My brother looks like me.

We both have the cerulean eyes that widen with craze; the tousled blonde hair; the long limbs; the short shoulders; the pearly albeit crooked teeth; the adventurous aura; the maniacal grins; the chime-bell laughs; the cheeky lilt; the pitiful backgrounds. It's in our blood.

His signature move is to sag his shoulders and slump when he's upset, and to clench his jaw when he's angry.

That is him right now.

His jaw is wired shut as Sucky Shion explains my condition as I lay in the hard bed, breathing, but not quite alive. I can see a faded hand reaching out to me from heaven, or hell, from my estranged mother or father, who knows. I am always so close to dying, but I always end up living. (What a tease.)

(It's truly confusing, considering I am constantly going through life threatening surgeries yet I make it out alive. Weird.)

There is yelling now, as far as my blurry vision and crappy ears could make out. Len is upset, his shoulders are hunched over and are brushing his jawline, Shion is being calm, as per usual, and tries to compromise, or be sympathetic. However, brother says, "Nigaito, this is my sister you're talking about. She deserves to live."

Okay, I feel flattered, but I don't want to live. Thanks.

Wait, is my brother the one that's keeping me from dying? _Hmm_.

Shion replies, "We can't keep performing surgeries when there are no positive results showing up. All of them could kill her." (Eh, not quite, but somewhat, Shion.)

This is when my brother looks like he's constipated—eyes watery, form rigid, hands trembling—and he says nothing. When he sees that I am awake, he rushes over and grasps my hand. His warmth engulfs my coldness, and it reminds me that living is somewhat worthwhile. "Are you okay, Rin?"

All of a sudden, I want to cry, or stab someone in the eye. My muffled reply is to supposed to sound like, "I am okay," but instead sounds like a donkey being strangled. Maybe I am a donkey being strangled, who knows. Ooh, mystery.

Len starts crying, big, fat tears streaming of his eyes. "I am so sorry that this is happening to you."

A lump forms in my throat, but I ignore it. "Yeah, it sucks."

What more can I say to my brother who had his heart broken then fixed again? "Don't be upset, death was inevitable anyway. There is no point in prolonging it."? I don't want to be alive to witness his heart being broken for the second time.

* * *

I remember, a few years ago, Len had quietly entered my room after one of my surgeries, and thinking that I was asleep, he silently wrote a letter beside my bed. I remember watching him from the corner of my eye, dizzy with drugs and exhausted from surgery, breathing heavily into the mask placed over my mouth and nose, feigning slumber.

I remember him hesitating a lot and him scribbling out words. I remember him gazing out of the window, thinking, then crossing out an entire paragraph. I remember him consistently rewriting a name on the page, then proceeding to rub it all out. I remember him using the eraser so much it was reduced to a tiny ball. I remember him tearing a hole in the page from writing too much, and breaking his pencil for leaning too hard.

I remember him finishing it and looking at it as if it were a miracle sent from heaven.

I remember him hugging it close.

I remember him ripping it to shreds.

I remember him throwing it out the window and letting it fly through the night sky.

I remember him crying and him crying next to me.

I remember me pretending to sleep, and regretting not stroking his hair or comforting him.

I remember the day my brother's heart broke for the first time.

Sometimes, I wish I _was_ mentally unstable, so I wouldn't remember.

* * *

Unsuccessful Surgery No. 26 just ended when I met Dr. Kyo, whose hair stuck up in odd angles and has a lopsided grin.

Apparently, Sucky Shion is being temporarily transferred to another department and Dr. Kyo is now my doctor. (Great—not.) He greets me with his lopsided grin, introduces himself ("I'm Dr. Kyo! I like women, roller coasters, and ballroom dancing!"), shakes my hand enthusiastically, and proceeds to ramble about the hot nurse at the counter. (So unprofessional and childish.)

It isn't fun.

He sucks in a way that beats Shion. (Which is record-breaking, considering Shion is probably a robot in disguise.)

One: He doesn't know when to draw the line. Shion always knows when I can't handle anymore of his dull lectures or his prescriptions analysis. However, Kyo won't stop talking about women or that one dancing competition he's obsessed about. (That's plain inconsiderate.)

Two: His womanising traits tend to suffocate me. Woman after woman after woman always barge into my room, whether or not Kyo is inside, and go around turning the ward upside down. Mostly because he cheated on them and/or played with their petty feelings. (Now that's downright shameless.)

Three: He asks questions that are too personal. Shion knows I don't tell anybody my secrets, and that I pretty much don't talk, but Kyo keeps bugging me. The constant pestering to speak, the irritating pleads, the shameless begging—it's all too overwhelming. Can't he understand that I will never tell him anything? (And that a grown man pretending to be cute is just pathetic?)

Four: He shoves his hobbies and obsessions down my throat. I barely knew a single thing about what Shion is interested in, but for Kyo—I know his specifics; hot not bleh women, cheese not vegetarian pizza, ballroom not krumping, rare not well done, brunette not blonde, Kdramas not politics, theme parks not museums, curvaceous not stick-like, fun not boredom. I don't want, nor need, to know any of this information.

Five: He pretends to care, full stop.

Six: He has become, unknowingly, important to me.

* * *

I remember, once upon a time, I had parents. At one point, everyone has parents, or at least, parent.

I remember, they were very important to me. So, so important. I would've taken a bullet to my chest for them, if they were to ever be in danger like that. My determination to be a good daughter was so strong, it could've torn through metal. I loved them so much. I was willing to sacrifice a lot for the people who made me exist—and yet, I just wasn't good enough.

On the year I was admitted to hospital for a permanent stay, my parents no longer loved me.

I remember them talking to my doctors, telling them they were willing to pay for my expenses, but were not going to support me as parental guardians. I remember that night, they visited me for the last time, and my mother hugged me tight while my father pecked me on the cheek. I remember asking them if they loved me, and all they did was smile and wave goodbye.

I remember the day, a year after I was submitted to hospital, my parents kicked my brother out of the house when he told them he was gay. I remember overhearing the doctors speaking in hushed voices, saying my parents have stopped providing me financial support and that me and Len were going to have to fend for ourselves. I remember my brother sitting in my hospital room, crying so much he began howling and screaming. I remember a relative of ours willing to pay for our expenses until Len got a job. I remember that was the first night my brother cut himself.

I had important people.

I have an important person.

I no longer want important people.

* * *

Meltdown No. 113 has just ended, and Kyo is in my room, interrogating the nurses who'd just witnessed my rather violent breakdown. He nods and murmurs and states and makes crazy hand gestures and makes thoughtful faces and strokes his nonexistent beard and straightens his posture and looks at me and smiles assuringly.

He approaches me, sits, smiles a smiley smile, and asks, "Do you need anything, Rin?"

He is either stupid, or he chooses to ignore my erratic panting. "I want to stop..."

His smile never wavers, but I see him gulp and stiffen his shoulders. He wants to say, or do something, but he can't. Or he won't. "What can I do to help?"

I whisper, "Hold my hand...and just stay here..."

That's when his smile fades, and is replaced with a concerned expression. He finds my hand and holds it tightly. "I'm here, Rin, ok? I'm here."

And we stay like that for hours; me in a torturous state of panic, and him, intertwining our fingers and cooing soothing nothings.

* * *

Romance is what I see on television screens.

They are dramatic, passionate, heartwarming, heartbreaking, forbidden, fluffy, cringey, desperate, and so on.

The closest I've ever loved someone, romantically, was when a patient moved into the room across from mine.

He had green hair and green eyes. He was my age. We were the same height. We were both emotionally and physically unstable.

It just so happened that his life was shorter.

But that's a story for another time.

* * *

After Extremely Unsuccessful Surgery No. 28, Kyo has been sent to help me out for the rest of the day because all my nurses have been temporarily assigned tasks in the ER, whilst Kyo is the only available staff at that time which led to the hasty decision of assigning him to me.

Normally, whenever I needed to go to the toilet, I had no problem of simply asking one of my nurses and they would escort me. (Women just naturally feel comfortable around each other.) But, since Kyo is very much a man, I feel uneasy and nervous.

I peer at him from the corner of my eye; his lazy self seated on the armchair diagonal from my hard bed, reading some sort of teen magazine and looking utterly confused. I clear my throat, fake a cough, then ask, "Can you help me?"

He immediately focuses his attention on me, the magazine discarded, "Sure. Whatcha need?"

I blush, reddening, it's embarrassing. "I need to go to the toilet."

Kyo just stares at me, then shakes his head and jumps to his feet. He brings my crutches over to my bedside, extending a helping hand, grinning lopsidedly, "I'll help you up."

I try to reach out, but my arm stings and falls back to my side. "I'm sorry, I can't—" But before I can finish, Kyo's sliding his arm underneath my head and sitting me upright. Afterwards, he guides my hands to my crutches and, by placing a firm hand on my hip, he helps me stand.

However, as I try to walk, I stumble and wobble, causing Kyo to breathe out through his nose, claiming, "These crutches won't do," and proceeds to chuck them to the side. He then guides my hand around his hip, and vice versa, and like that, we hobble to the bathroom.

At our closeness, and how our sides are pressed so tightly against each other, I become even more flustered, stuttering, "Kyo... Uhm... The crutches were alright—"

Absentminded Kyo looks to me, "Hm? Did you say something—" He stops midway through his sentence as I look back at him, countering his piercing gaze with my own. We stop in our tracks, and despite the height difference, with me reaching a little past his nose, I can feel his breath fanning my cheeks, adding fuel to the fire.

He releases a raspy gasp, "Wow... I never really realised this...but you're so pretty, Rin."

I blush, stammer, "Now's not the time to say that!"

Kyo nods, chuckles, "True."

We continue to the bathroom, where I pee and dunk my face in cold water to subdue the feeling of uneasiness in my stomach and the tightening in my chest.

* * *

I am being prepped for Presumably Unsuccessful Surgery No. 29 when Kyo barges into my room, forehead coated with sweat and panting. Once he sees me on my hard bed, about three nurse hovering above me, trying to ready me for another chance with death, his eyes widen and his voice is hard and solemn when he speaks up. "Rin cannot go into that surgery room."

One nurse looks at him with doubt. "What do you mean, doctor?"

He pads over to my bedside, his lips tightened to form a straight line. "She is in no condition to do this."

Another nurse pipes up. "We were told to get her ready, doctor. She will be okay."

"Rin is a fighter—she won't die," the third states, and that's when I snap.

"Can you all shut up?" I hiss, earning their undivided attention. I sigh and relax my body into the hard surface of my bed. "Let me get this over with."

Kyo looks like he has more to say, more to protest, but the other nurses are going back to work, completely ignoring us. He inches closer and looks me straight in the eye. It's unnerving. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

I think about it. It's a thorough contemplation, and I eventually come to a decision. "Don't ever try to stop a surgery again, okay?" He reluctantly nods, and we pinky promise. "And... Please, will you hold my hand as I prepare myself for the chances of death?"

Kyo's eyes widen, caramel brown expanding and swirling, and he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he grasps my hand with a strained smile. His and my coldness combine together to make an iceberg. It reminds me that, sometimes, it's worthwhile to live. There is no lopsided grin to be found as he whispers, "I believe you won't die."

* * *

Somehow, somewhat, Kyo and I have gotten closer ever since that scene before Totally Unsuccessful Surgery No. 29.

It feels like, now, he is a lot more human, reachable, rather than a womaniser completely fanatic about all sorts of stupid stuff. He is reliable now. "Rin, what would you like?" "Can I get you some juice?" "I know it's hard, so I'll help you." (Unbelievable, I know.)

He talks about relatable stuff. "Rin, did you like the manga?" "In my opinion, I ship Temari and Shikamaru." "Oh no—I don't like that boy band. They're too handsome." "I feel like she shouldn't have went blonde." "That doctor smells like oranges and vaguely of cabbage, right?" "Okay, yeah, that boy band's alright." "No, no, Shannon is an absolute nutcase." "I prefer her in black, like in Gee." "I hate it when you go to the hospital bathroom and someone is there pooping." (Yes, totally relatable.)

I guess that's why, on the night of Presumably Unsuccessful Surgery No. 30 (the grand 30!), Kyo insists on staying by my side.

Not that anyone really cared about his stubbornness and determination to stay in the room—well, until he started to interfere with the surgery.

Upon finding out that, although the others were just as fatal, this surgery is one that would surely kill me. (75% chance, they said.)

Kyo couldn't accept that.

* * *

Death is something I have been anticipating since the day I was transferred to the hospital around elementary school. It was always something I expected, but it never came. Len dreads it, but that's because his is still a mystery, while mine is clear. It was bound to happen, my life was destined to be shortened by the cruel knife of illness.

However, when I see the hands reaching out to me, from whiteness (or blackness?) I back away.

I don't want to die.

I want to live.

And breathe.

So, I scramble away from the hands that chase after me, because, as I said before, death is inevitable, and the hands of death are coming after me to shorten my life in a form of illness. It shows no mercy as its hands wields the blade of death and attempts to end my existence.

I run away, because I don't want to die.

Although, on various occasions, I want to die—but I realise, I can't. I shouldn't, I won't.

There is so much things I still have to do, so much things I have to live for.

Then, my eyes are suddenly open, and the operation room comes into focus. Hospital staff are hovering over me as if I am a live exhibition from a museum I've never had a chance to visit. In the front, there is Kyo, holding my hand. His coldness and my warmth melt to form life. It reminds me that life is worth living.

That is when, after five years of never shedding a tear, I cry. I cry so much that I finish four boxes of tissue. I cry so much Len has to be brought in to comfort me. I cry so much Mikuo has to order takeaway. I cry so much the doctors allow me to watch soap operas and go to the bathroom alone. I cry so much that Kyo has to stay by my side or else I will scream.

At the stroke of midnight, he says to me, "The reason you don't die is because you don't want to."

I nod, smile, whisper, "The reasons why I want to live keep piling up."

We are close, a breath away, and he smirks, "Am I one?"

His smirk is returned with my own. "If you want to be."

He does not hesitate. "I'd be honoured."

* * *

I am not dead.

Things have lightened up. There is hope.

Although it only extends so far, limited happiness, I still live on, because life is worth living.

Two years have passed, and I've finally been released from hospital.

At the age of 18, I am free. (Sort of.)

Mikuo has gotten me a job at a local library—not much, but it's a start—Len has applied me to his old college and I befriended Kyo's cousin, Yuu. (We met at a coffee shop where I charmed him with my dazzling skills. Like spilling macchiato all over his crotch.)

Kyo, on the other hand, has been transferred to another hospital, where he works in the children's sections and part time babysitter. He's grown taller, a little more smug, slightly mature, but still a humongous dork. My humongous dork. (I know, I know—I picked up a good-looking one. Surprisingly.)

We can be together, freely.

But.

I still can't ballroom dance with him nor ride roller coasters. I am lactose intolerant. I am blonde, not brunette, and my body, despite hitting puberty hard, is still similar to a ruler. I can't eat blood and Kdramas make my chest medically hurt, despite my love for them.

I cannot, wholeheartedly, physically, emotionally and mentally experience things with him; properly love him.

There's a limit to my happiness.

But.

I am breathing.

And I am alive as I'll ever be.


	6. The Disappearing Sun

**"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light."**

**― Helen Keller**

* * *

**Title:** The Disappearing Sun

**Type:** Oneshot

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre(s)**_:_ Hurt / Comfort / Angst

**Warning(s)**: mention of drug abuse, domestic abuse and murder

**Plot:** "We are the refuge to each other's broken lives."

**Notes:** Inspired by the most mysterious yet entrancing music video. Kudos, 방탄선연단.

* * *

Down the uneven slopes and past overgrown roots, by an overhanging cliff, were train tracks.

Occasionally, every few hours or so, a rickety train trudges by on these rickety tracks, and chugs its way out of sight around the cliff bend. And when these rusty tracks weren't being used, there, laid a girl with striking blue eyes, and a matching pixie cut.

Her usual routine is to smoke a pipe, plop herself dead centre on the tracks, kick off her sneakers, then finish the pipe. It was always her thing, then it became their thing.

Thursday's sky was streaked with purples splotches of orange, and dusk was creeping and the day was ending. She could see the horizon perfectly from her position, and craned her neck to really appreciate the beauty.

It was perfect; the perfect sunset, her perfectly shattered home that been left behind, her perfectly pathetic excuse for friends, her perfectly upside down life, her perfectly imperfect existence. Everything was imperfect except for this sunset, this moment, _her_ moment, was perfect.

Until, with the sound of crunching leaves and frantic footsteps, he crashed out of the woods and ruined the perfection. Of the sunset. Of the moment. Ruined the imperfect perfection of her life.

He looked just as odd as her—neon green hair disheveled and weaved with twigs, grey eye contact lenses that failed to mask the panic in his eyes, his torn clothes that may or may not have been a fashion statement, and him. _Just him screamed odd._ And those ugly, ugly bruises and spots and splotches that marred and tainted his once perfectly creamy skin.

He was a mess.

And that's probably why they got along so well.

* * *

Their first meeting was awkward yet impactful.

Albeit him ignoring her and her otherwise attractive lips oozing smoke and her shoeless feet and her jagged haircut, she was glad he had the decency to not block the view as they watched the sunset in silence.

Afterwards, she hopped up and tucked her pipe into her back pocket and tugged her sneakers on and he sighed in relief and they both walked away from each other, in opposite directions.

Soon, after day after day of him emerging from the woods, either looking thoroughly beaten or just mildly disoriented, and them watching the sunset in silence on the rusty train tracks, it sort of became a hangout for them. Though neither knew the other's name, it was a mutual and unspoken agreement that both parties were fine with that.

The first words spoken between them came out by accident, she could tell.

Halfway through the sun setting, he had blurted out, "You go to Kawasaki, huh?" And when she glanced at him, a mixture of surprise and awe, he became flustered. "You're wearing the uniform."

She had completely forgotten she had ditched going home entirely that day and went straight to the tracks, instead of the usual routine of sneaking in through her bedroom window and undressing as quick as possible before they found she was home.

Now that she thought about it, her usual routine was no longer usual ever since he entered the scene.

Despite being initially taken aback by his rather deep, cool voice, and the fact that he actually knew how to talk, she recovered rather quickly and replied smoothly, "Yup. Kawasaki. Home of prestigious trash."

What she didn't expect him to do was laugh. "More like Palace of the Prestigious Pigs."

She let out an appreciative laugh which caused him to smile a little wider. "You can't be anymore right." When silence drifted in again, and her having found she enjoyed his sense of humour, she nudged him slightly with her elbow and patted the spot next to her. "C'mon, sit down. The view is way better from here."

He looked reluctant, for a millisecond, but he smiled again and plopped down beside her. When she blew a puff out from her pipe, he grimaced, scrunching his nose up, disgusted. "Smells like my house."

She barked out a laugh. "We have more things in common than I thought."

Upon realising they were threading on a rather dangerous path, he changed the subject, and gestured to her feet. "Is this experience better without shoes?" She could practically feel the teasing smirk, despite not even looking at him.

"It certainly makes the experience more enjoyable," she answers with her own smirk. "But considering what's on your feet are barely remnants of shoes, I'd have to confess; you're already gaining the full experience."

He laughs again, and she had to correct herself; this, this perfect sunset, their imperfect perfection, their perfect moment, was perfect. "I'm glad I'm learning from the master."

They make eye contact, and those grey eyes she once thought were fake, were alive and misty. She smiles. And it's a genuine smile, because out of all the people out there that has unfortunately come across her, he was the most broken, like her, and she found that oddly comforting.

"I'm glad I'm teaching you all the useless things in this world. Because somebody's got to do it, and you won't find anyone better than me."

* * *

Since then, their odd friendship continued rocketing.

When she had thought about it, under her hard, stiff, cold bed, she realised that all that rubbish people spew about revealing each other's deepest secrets would make them closer was nonsense. They didn't even know each other's names for heavens sake—and they were practically joined at the hip.

One day, however, she accidentally stepped out of line. Actually, now that she thought about it, she might as well have danced all over the line with how she had acted that day. She had broken the wall of anonymity between them, and their friendship deepened. For the good of for the worse, she didn't know.

It was her new usual routine in which she skipped home completely and raced to the train tracks after school.

When she had arrived, she noticed he had arrived first. Which should've been the first hint, but she, for some reason, neglected it entirely. He never arrived before her.

And he never bore as many bruises as he did until that very moment.

She approached him cheerfully, waving and skipping and flushing up to him in joy, when she stopped in her tracks.

He looked up at her, wincing as he did so, and she saw.

Despite being like a beautiful canvas, he had been painted with the world's ugliest, scariest colours; of reds, purples, blacks, browns, greys, greens and yellows. They all stained and spread and tainted his smooth creamy surface and poisoned him. Rather than the beautiful canvas he once was, he was now a used and discarded palette, his colours mixed and beauty drained, and no longer needed.

She didn't hesitate to hug him.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she mumbled into the crook of his neck as she nuzzled her head deeper, trying to mould into him, trying to lessen and help him bear the unbelievable pain he was experiencing, "I'm so so sorry. You don't deserve this. You don't...you don't."

And she cried and sobbed and screamed and wailed until voice was hoarse, because God, although she didn't know him or what he has gone through, she did know that this boy didn't deserve it. And what confirmed the beauty of him was as she cried and as she tried to wash away the ugly colours of his scarred canvas with her tears, he just stroked her jagged hair with his gentle fingers and comforted her under the setting sun.

* * *

After that, she made sure to bring a medical kit with her every time they met.

Despite her "friends" constantly mocking her for always heaving it around, and him not receiving as many bruises as before, she still brought it with her. Because he doesn't deserve it. And if there were a list of things she had prioritised in her life, he'd be the only one on it. Therefore, the first aid kit must be with her at all times.

He refused the medical treatment, initially. Continuously making lousy excuse such as, "I'm allergic to being nursed," or, "Bandages scare me," or, "The ointment's texture is weird." But her determination got to him, and he admitted defeat, which led to her treating his wounds every time they met.

One day, on her new usual routine, as she bandaged up some cuts on his arm, he spoke so softly and quietly she almost didn't catch, "You know, one thing I like about you is that you don't ask questions."

She took a moment to process that he had, indeed, said that aloud. And he was awkwardly awaiting her answer. So, she composed herself, and replied as she continued patching him up, "It's because you don't ask questions too."

The last bandage had been placed, and he took back his arm, smiling gratefully. "It's just that... People, well, general mankind, are always seeking answers to questions that are either impossible or blatantly obvious. Because when we already know the answers, we don't care."

He continued talking, and she remained silent, appreciatively listening. "Like, for an example, people always ask if there's life outside of earth. They're only curious because it's impossible to find an answer, therefore they still care." He paused to take a deep breath, then started again. "Second example: when a girl asks her longtime boyfriend if he loves her. Although it's blatantly obvious, she still asks because she cares about his answer, which he hasn't expressed clearly, but most definitely indirectly."

"As my conclusion, to sum it up, basically, humans, unless given direct, clear, legible answers, we remain curious and still care," he paused, then looked her straight in the eye, smirking softly, "but you, you weren't given a clear and direct answer yet you never asked. Is it because you simply don't care?"

Because of his mind blowing speech, she was temporarily entranced, but recovered upon hearing a question being direct to her. She shook her head, grinned broadly, and answered, "You're right about everything...except for one part." She reached out to hug him tightly, assuringly, "I don't ask _because_ I care. I care about your privacy, I care about your consent and your decisions. If you don't want to tell me, then I won't ask, because I care about _you_."

She pulled away and grinned cheekily. "I have a theory that contradicts yours." She coughed dramatically and straightened her posture, all to make the atmosphere lighthearted. "Humans may not know the answers to some questions, but sometimes they find comfort in not knowing. They are content in ignorant bliss. Other times, humans just care too much to ask. And that's the case for me.

"I think it's because we're both messed up," he joked, but sounded bitter.

"True," she admitted, shrugging, not really giving a damn that they were broken beyond repair, "but at least we have each other."

He smiled. And the atmosphere was perfect again. "Both of your statements are quite true."

* * *

Another time, he was acting strangely.

As if there were a ticking time bomb amidst them, and he had to express many things before it went off. Before it destroyed them both.

"I want you to know," he had spoke up suddenly as they watched the sun lower in the sky, "that our friendship was the best thing that ever happened to me."

She had been taken aback, definitely, because this time, they were _really_ threading down a dangerous path. One that involved personal thoughts, feelings, secrets...and rest assured, her thoughts, feelings, secrets were anything but sweet and sugary.

She fixed her composure and whispered in response, "Same goes for me."

She recognised the relaxing of his shoulders and the relief that flooded into his eyes, and he smiled lazily, "So, I want to know more about you."

She was surprised. Downright flabbergasted. Their stroll down this dangerous path was soon becoming a daring trip even further into the woods. She could only manage a, "About m-me?"

He nodded. "About you."

She knew she wasn't going to worm her way out of this one, and besides, it was about time they actually talked about themselves, right? "Well, I bet you've been wondering why I go to Kawasaki ever since you first saw my uniform, right?" She continued after he nodded again. "I know I behave and dress like a low-class druggie, but my parents are actually the Adaichi's."

Upon hearing this new information, he gasped, shocked and slightly in wonder. "The Adaichi's? As in, one of the ring leaders of Japan's oil and gas trading department?" He processed this information slowly, his mouth hanging open. "So that makes you their daughter—"

"I'm Aoki Adaichi, yes," she said this with a wry smile. "Want an autograph?"

He shook his head, still dazed. "No, no, it's just—didn't you have brown, straight hair?"

"Used to," she roughly brushed a hand through her homemade pixie cut with a grimace. "That was before my "friends" introduced me to marijuana."

Now that everything was spilling from the heavily locked confinement of her deepest darkest secrets, she pushed through, pretending to ignore his hanging jaw and wide eyes.

"So, there were these group of guys and chicks that always got into trouble. For what? At that time I didn't know, and I didn't attempt to find out until my home began shattering." She drew in a sharp intake of breath, because the rollercoaster was going to drop. "My mom began an affair with her coworker, and my dad turned to drugs. And I thought, "Hey, to get my family back on track, and get them to realise that everything's falling apart, I'll mess my life up too!""

"But that wasn't how it went down. I joined the group at school, hoping to get myself into noticeable trouble with them, but ended digging my own grave as they got me into weed. Which then led to my parents finding out, then blaming each other, and then delving themselves even deeper into their jobs, and affairs and drugs and..."

She had to stop. Because it was too much.

He understood, and hugged her, because she didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve any of it. And to prove the beauty of her, as she sobbed and cried until her eyes were dry, she only hugged him even tighter, and whispered "sorrys" into his ear under a disappearing sun.

* * *

The next meeting was as strange and as ominous as the last.

He appeared out of the woods, well-dressed and in a proper state. He seemed to have even combed his hair and had worn proper shoes. She was glad he looked and behaved the same, or else she would've thought he was a complete stranger.

"I think it's refreshing, you know?" He admitted, stretching his arms wide and open, as if to catch the sun as it set, "Us, just watching this big ball of light descend and vanish and it's somehow extremely beautiful, plus with the cool breeze and the rustling of the leaves around us from the thick woods—it's all so...perfect."

"Agreed," she said simply, because he took the words straight out of her mouth, and no more was to be added.

"And what makes it better, is that things are changing, you feel? It's like a new era, it's like a new beginning, it's like—" he stopped, stared at the sky for a long time, then glanced at her, smiling faintly, "I'm free."

She didn't know what he had meant at that time, but she wish she had.

* * *

The bomb finally exploded.

It was when an exceptionally wet and dreary day at school became so incredibly tedious she decided to cut class. Since Kawasaki was known for its security protocols to protect the children of the balling businessmen, the gates were always shut during school hours and the premises was confined in tall, barbed walls.

But Aoki Adaichi wasn't going to allow these things to hinder her.

Which led to her sneaking out through the dumpster shootout one of her "friends" had shown her earlier on in the year, and now, she was very thankful. Without anyone seeing her, she successfully escaped the premises, and hoped no one would realise her absence until she was far gone from the area.

The rain was heavy, and she only had her backpack to prevent her entire self from being drenched. Somewhere along the way of trying to find her favourite diner, she wished she had actually stayed at school for the last few hours, particularly because she was now thoroughly soaked.

Her favourite diner, however, changed her thoughts, and the owner welcomed her warmly and provided her with a fresh set of clothes and some lunch. (They were quite close considering she had been the reason their diner wasn't shut down by her heartless parents who wanted to build a new headquarters on the land.)

After freshening herself up, she seated herself in the corner of the secluded diner and ate away on some noodles. Aside from the tracks and the overhang of the cliff, this was her favourites place. Not only did she have a great view of the TV screen, but she could also watch the people pass from outside the diner's windows.

It was perfect.

But not that day.

That day, the windows were fogged and streaked with the rather depressing tears of the rain, and every passerby is blurred and unclear and confusing. The diner is bustling and she feels quite alone, really. And the TV screen displays a sorrowful case of a domestic abuse in which the husband had killed his wife and his daughter—

She stopped eating. She pushed aside all her stuff to the side to lean over the table and get a better view and better shot of hearing the grave looking TV reporter.

"—Mr. Himura has been abusing his wife and his daughter for four years now. According to the neighbours and relatives, Mr. Himura had been diagnosed with cancer shortly after the death of his own parents, which, we believe, was the beginning of his violent outbursts."

"We have also received information from an anonymous tip that Mr. Himura's son had tried very desperately to prevent his mother and sister from being abused by withstanding his father's anger by himself. The school has informed us that this young boy regularly attends school with bruises unmistakably caused by another person. However, when questioned, he does not reveal anything, and the educational department admits to having simply assumed he was just a troublemaker, and did not delve further into the matter."

"Mrs. Himura's lawyer has contacted the news station a few moments ago, and told us that she had filed a divorce against him and a restraining order against her husband in order to escape his violent tendencies, and these documents were approved and finalised today. However, upon hearing of the ulterior motives behind the divorce, in a fit of rage, Mr. Himura violently killed both his wife and his daughter using a kitchen knife. His son is nowhere to be seen."

And she could hear no more.

She felt sick. She felt confused. She felt furious. She felt pity. She felt anger. She felt sadness. She felt horrid. She felt pathetic. She felt weak. She felt sorrow. She felt hurt. She felt like her imperfectly perfect world was shattering, despite initially believing it was already shards of glass a long time ago.

She felt like this was all one big nightmare and that she'd wake up and she would have brown, long hair and that she wasn't addicted to drugs and that her parents loved each other and loved her and that she never had to have escaped to the overhanging cliff and the train tracks or the diner and that her life would be perfect.

Just perfect. Not imperfectly perfect. Just normal.

But no.

Because if her life hadn't been that way she wouldn't have met him, and despite the huge amount of selfishness she was bearing, she wouldn't have wanted their lives to change at all, because through all of those horrible things and disasters, they met each other.

And he was all that mattered.

They were all that mattered.

Their friendship was all that mattered.

_His son is nowhere to be seen._

Those words kept ringing in her ears and she didn't know what she was doing but she knew she had to find him and she knew where.

Blindly, she grabbed all her stuff and hastily spilled some cash over the counter and ran out the diner into the heavy rain. She didn't care that she was now drenched again nor that she couldn't possibly run in this weather and not get sick nor that everything was falling apart even more; she had to find him.

In the blurry mist of the rain, she hurried to catch a train home to make it to the place. Their place.

Once she got off, she scrambled into the woods down the uneven and slippery slopes and trying not to trip over the overgrown roots to reach the overhanging cliff and the train tracks—their home.

He was there.

Lying in-between the parallel lines, eyes staring up at the pouring sky, emotionlessly allowing the rain to seep into every crevice of his body. It was as if the beautiful canvas was attempting to cleanse itself o the ugly colours it wears.

And it was working.

She approached him, a little cautious, and stood over him, mumbled, "I heard. I'm so sorry." And some tears slipped out and joined the rain droplets that fell upon his face.

He closed his eyes, almost in pain, inhaled, then exhaled. "It was inevitable."

"Why didn't you tell me? I could've helped you." She said weakly, her voice straining, and throat tightening. "This wouldn't have happened if I had asked—"

"You couldn't have done anything." He said solemnly, with his eyes open and boring into her own. "He was a maniac...and I was crazy to think that Mama would finally set us free with those divorce papers. I thought Mama and Gumi and me would fix our lives again but..." He laughed humourlessly. "Now I have nothing. Everything I was protecting, everything I loved...it's gone. It's all gone."

And then he started crying.

For the first time since she has known him, he finally cried.

Despite all the times she had cried to him, no matter how upset she was, his sobs and wails were much more heartbreaking. As he curled up into a ball on the parallel lines, sobbing into his palms, as the rain began washing the neon green from his hair; he was no longer a beautiful canvas, but a broken boy.

Aoki quietly laid herself beside him, facing his direction, and gently guided his head into her shoulder. They remained that way for a very long time, way after the rain had stopped, way after he had stopped crying. Because it was okay like this, them, together, accepting their broken homes.

Eventually, he pulled out from his hiding place, and she felt her heart drop and stomach twist at the sight of his swollen eyes and red nose. She didn't know what to say, and she was glad when he spoke up for her. "I need to tell you something."

She gently brushed away the wet strands falling over his face, and tenderly cupped his cheek. "Yeah, okay, go on."

He was rather sheepish and flustered but finally mustered up to courage to find his words. "Back then, it was just so hard for me... and at times, I thought about just disappearing. Erasing my existence from this world. And one day, he just took it too far, and I needed to escape. I didn't know where I was going or what I was going to do if he found me, but I ran into the woods and then I saw this place and the sun and you, and God, I didn't care if he found me and killed me because I was in heaven already and I saw you and I legit thought you were an angel—"

Aoki leaned in to silence him. The kiss was chaste and sweet, unlike everything else. "I saw you," she deepened the kiss, and it was oh so perfect. "And, indeed, I agree. We found heaven."

* * *

Afterwards, they sat on the rusty train tracks, joined at the hip, metaphorically and literally, watching the sunset in peaceful silence.

Their hands were locked with each other's, intertwined tightly so that nobody could ever break it.

Eventually, she asked as she leaned on his shoulder, taking in the beautiful reds and oranges of the sky, "What do we do now?"

"Stay here until the police find our rotting corpses?" he suggested jokingly, but upon receiving a serious glare, he coughed awkwardly, and answered, "Well, since He's going to rot in jail for the rest of his life, I''ll probably move in with Mama's sister a few minutes from here."

Content with his rather mundane answer with no hints of self-harm, Aoki asked the question that had been bugging her for a very long time. She lifted their joined hands, and glanced at him to find him already looking at her. "What about us?"

"What about us?" He countered, looking rather blank.

"What is this?" She gestured wildly at their joined hips and hands, "What are we?"

"Well, we are what we are," he said smoothly and confidently, then proceeded to steal kiss from her when she was distracted.

"Actually, you _are_ right," she lowered their hands and snuggled even deeper into his neck, "we are what we are." For a long moment, nothing was said, until she spoke up again. "And that will never change."

They were silent for a while until he whispered into her ear, "That's one of the things I like about you. You never ask questions and are content with the vague and unspoken answers given to you. You respect the beauty of this relationship. and its aesthetic traits. I love that."

She tightened her grip on his hand affectionately, grinning broadly. "It's because I care about this relationship, or whatever it is. And asking tedious question isn't going it do anything anyway, because I'm perfectly odd, and it's completely fine that way."

He leaned in, whispering, "Correction: _we're_ perfectly odd together," then he kissed her, as if to seal their unspoken promise.

* * *

However, after a rather long time of kissing rather passionately, Aoki pulled away, breathless.

He observed the way she looked more beautiful that she had even been; the sunlight seeping through her azure locks, the faint yet warm glow surrounding her entire self. her mysteriously serene expression and red, red lips—his train of thoughts was subdued as she frowned, and although he found it cute, the fact she looked thoroughly disgruntled had him concerned.

"You know, everything may be going well for you, somewhat," she added quickly, realising she sounded rather insensitive, "I mean, uh, well, my home is still fairly messed up and this isn't exactly a happy ending, you feel?"

"I know, I know," he hugged her, tightly, trying to convey his feelings, including those of love and empathy, through their embrace, "but, remember, we are the refuge to each other's broken lives, okay? So, if anybody lets us down, we have each other to fall back on."

"Yeah..." she returned the embrace, "yes, you're right."

But again, Aoki pulled away, and this time, he outwardly showed his annoyance by whimpering and pouting childishly. She smile apologetically, and said, "There's one more thing I need to ask..." She looked a little sheepish, but pressed on. "What's your name?"

He nearly laughed and nearly facepalmed upon hearing her rather stupid question and interrupting their beautiful moments together, but he only smiled delicately and said, "My name is Haruto Ryuuto Himura."

Aoki frowned, thinking. "Haruto? As in the sun?" She glanced sideways at the descending literal ball of flame in the sky and laughed. "Oh, God, this is so perfect."

"Well, we are imperfectly perfect," Haruto acknowledged, smirking lopsidedly.

And he captured her lips once more.


End file.
